


Dear John Watson

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Broadway References, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Second Person, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 13:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Inspired by the lyrics (not the plot) of Dear Evan Hansen, the hit Broadway Musical. You absolutely do not need to know anything about the musical to understand this story. However, I recommend listening to it for its sheer genius.John's therapist tells him to write letters to himself to help himself. Sherlock is on drugs to dull emotional pain. They're both feeling helpless.Then they meet one another.EDIT OCTOBER 2018: This work has been abandoned but I will leave it up for anybody wishing to read it. If you are interested in a "Dear Evan Hansen"-inspired Johnlock fic, please see my one-shot fic entitled "Sincerely, Me."Thank you!





	1. Anybody Have A Map?

**Author's Note:**

> A short first chapter to kick us off. Let's go!  
> This is before they meet, contains references to their depressions.
> 
> EDIT: OCTOBER 2018  
> This work has been abandoned. Please check out my one-shot piece entitled "Sincerely, Me" if you are interested in a "Dear Evan Hansen"-inspired Johnlock fic. It is better written and complete.

            “How are the letters going? ‘Dear John Watson, today is going to be a good day and here’s why…’”

            John hesitated. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, saying “I’ve started one.”

            Ella barely missed a beat before accurately guessing “You haven’t written a word, have you? These letters are important, John. They’re going to help you.”

            Wanting to change the subject, John motioned to her notepad, on which she had just written. “You just wrote ‘still has trust issues.’”

            Her hand lifted, briefly looking down before putting her hand back, motioning to him and said “And you read my writing upside down.” Her eyebrow arched. Silence. “You see what I mean?”

            Fuck. She had a point. John looked at her and attempted a smile that he hoped conveyed lightheartedness, but felt the forced uncomfortableness of it and stopped almost immediately.

            “John,” she continued, pausing to look down at his arm in the cast. Looking back at his face, she said “You’re a soldier. And it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing letters to yourself about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

            John felt intense internal frustration that he knew had nothing to do with Dr. Thompson herself. The idea of the letters being able to help him was preposterous. Not even one week earlier, he had attempted to take his own life. He didn’t need a letter to himself, he needed…. Hell, he didn’t know what he needed. Regardless, everything that happened to him? Such as? He looked at her and said, voice level, “Nothing happens to me.”

 

 

            “Mmmm.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed. He knew this noise would convey to Mycroft that not only was he not listening, but he didn’t care, wasn’t going to care, and was done with the conversation. What were they talking about? He couldn’t recall. It was boring.

            He didn’t hear any retreating footsteps, any noises of frustration, nor any other noise at all. He opened one eye and saw Mycroft, still in the doorway, leaning on his umbrella and gazing at him with arch eyebrows. Fiercely closing his eyes again and dramatically rolling over to turn his back on Mycroft, Sherlock thought for sure this would prove his point.

            A couple second passed. Was it an hour? Alas. No retreating footsteps. Silence.

            “This is the first time the British Secret Service is needing your personal assistance, you will not miss their first requested appointment.”

            With a groan, Sherlock stood up swiftly and walked briskly over to Mycroft until he stood nose-to-nose with his brother. “I already said,” he said, his voice low and firm, “I would go tomorrow.”

            A beat. Mycroft’s eyes dilated, his eyes darted, his nostrils flaring slightly, and then a smile. “Unbelievable.”

            “What?” he snapped through clenched teeth, anger rising in him rapidly.

“You’re high.”

Sherlock said nothing but averted his eyes to his skull painting, which seemed to be glowing. That was new.

            “You will not be attending a meeting with these people whilst high, brother mine.”

            “Great!” he said with a smile that had not one ounce of real joy. “Then I will not go. Thank you _so_ much, Mycroft. You best be on your way.”

            Without another word, Sherlock made his way to the couch again, plopped down on it, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t listening for footsteps anymore. Mycroft would not stay and pester him any longer. Sherlock was already floating in and out of dreams, unsure of reality and make-believe.

            Many hours later as dreams faded and reality became more and more clear, Mycroft was gone which meant Sherlock was alone and very nearly sober. Wandering into the kitchen, he felt unbearable loneliness. He felt crippling sadness, frustration, and the sharpening feeling of helplessness.

            Unacceptable. He gathered what he needed and proceeded to use drugs to relieve his feelings which he would continue to pretend was “boredom.” Would he ever be more than he’d always been?


	2. Waving Through A Window and For Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Forever is the song that inspired me to write this work in the first place. I am so thrilled to finally write it. John writes a letter to himself in the second person, which was a total pain to write but completely rewarding.  
> Beware of time jumps! I give contextual clues, even Anderson can deduce them.  
> The last chapter established that John is in an arm cast. He still is.

            “ _The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B_.”

            The words ran through John’s head continuously. In front of him was his laptop, open to the website of Sherlock Holmes. John could not make head nor tails of what to think of this strange man.

            Surely the man couldn’t be real. This Sherlock Holmes was some joke or some fantasy he had conjured up for himself. Perhaps Dr. Thompson had placed him in John’s life to give him something to write about. After all, this would be one hell of a letter: “Dear John Watson, today I met a(n exceptionally handsome) man who knew everything about me. Oh, also, he knew about Harry from my fucking _phone_. It was terrifying and also bloody hot.”

            Somewhere in his mind, he recalled those words jotted down during their session: “still has trust issues.” He silently cursed himself. No, Ella did not place Sherlock Holmes in his life just to get him to write a letter.

            John rubbed his eyes, realizing when he did so just how long he had been reading The Science of Deduction. For months, John had gone through the motions of his life, not having the drive to do anything. His days passed as blurs, each one as monotonous and meaningless and the next. But meeting Sherlock Holmes was like someone held up a lighter to his dry, brittle life.

            Mike had insisted he meet the man, and John hadn’t had the energy to fight him on it. They arrived at the lab and John had been so preoccupied with the vast changes in appearances to the room that he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock. Until he spoke. His voice was low and smooth and held an edge to it that perked John’s attention. He needed Mike’s phone to text- but no. He just needed _a_ phone.

            Upon offering it to the man, he took it. But when Sherlock said “Afghanistan or Iraq?” John felt his heart go still. Equal parts amused, scared, and excited, John _felt_ something. Months on end of no feeling, no passion, not caring about where his life was going. Sherlock Holmes stirred something in him. This was evident by the hours John had spent reading the blog detailing tobacco ash, identify an airline pilot by his thumb, a number of other things John had no real interest in. Why was he reading? Because of the idea that one human- one man- could be so bright, so perceptive, so immeasurably fascinating.

            John stared down at his desk. An apple (which he would not eat), his gun (which he would not use yet), and his laptop. He closed his laptop with his right arm and stood up, careful not to hit his left arm in the cast on his desk. Sherlock thought the arm wound was from battle. Everyone thought the arm wound was from battle. Nobody knew.

            He would go. John would go to 221b Baker Street tomorrow. He was going to see a flat with a strange, brilliant man and he was going to become flatmates with him.

 

 

            Sherlock fell onto one of the chairs in 221b and briefly closed his eyes. Hours were spent today by Sherlock moving into the flat and attempting to make the place as appealing as possible for Dr. John Watson tomorrow. When he opened his eyes, he looked around at his work. Not perfect, but it would do.

            “ _No,_ ” Sherlock thought. “ _It has to be perfect._ ” He looked over to the skull, placed next to the chair. Reaching for it, he felt almost unbearable loneliness sweep over him. This skull, Billy, was his only friend in the world. He chuckled coldly at the irony. He named the skull after his own first name as a joke (which no one found funny save himself) and now he truly was his own only friend. Wrapping his arms around the skull, he hung his head.

            Sherlock had no friends. Which would be tolerable, except nobody even _liked_ him. Everything about Sherlock- his compulsions, his habits, his intellect- pushed people away. He seldom intended to, but it just happened. So no, Sherlock didn’t have friends. He didn’t have anyone who cared about him. And worse, it was his own damn fault.

            Today, however, the Doctor… he was different. Many times, his brain worked and made deductions faster than his conscious brain could connect the dots. This was one of those times. Rationally, there was nothing remarkable about the man he met. And yet Sherlock found himself nervous to no end that John Watson would not want to move in, hate him, and never want to see him again.

            So no, the flat could not be “good enough.” The flat needed to be perfect. For John, for himself.

It was often that Sherlock felt he needed to learn how to slam on his breaks before he turns on the part of him that compulsively deduced every aspect of a person’s life. When he spoke to people, he always leads with the worst part of himself. What is one day, he gave nobody a reason to stare? After all, he couldn’t slip up if he decided to slip away. Because if love and happiness was a box, Sherlock had always been on the outside always looking in. He tried tapping on the glass, waving to those inside, but to no avail.

Maybe John Watson would wave back. Perhaps he was feeling the same way, maybe he would tolerate Sherlock. Perhaps he might even _like_ Sherlock. But Sherlock would settle for tolerance. Sherlock knew John needed somebody, as evidenced by his arm. Sherlock was no fool, he knew the wound was not received in battle. But he hadn’t said anything. He never received credit for the deductions he _didn’t_ make out loud, he only received scrutiny for the ones he did.

Perhaps Sherlock could convince John Watson that a crash in a forest does make a sound. Even if there is nobody around, a fall in a forest makes a sound. He thinks he’s never made a sound, but Sherlock heard him.

 

**Several Months Later**

Dear John Watson,

It was the end of May (or early June?) that we shared a picture perfect afternoon. You sat down for a dinner with Sherlock Holmes. His hair fell beautifully around his face and you found yourself smiling without needing to try. God, it felt good to smile. We picked a spot in the restaurant and talked casually about our lives and jokes about our cases that nobody would think appropriate except the two of us. Because Sherlock understands you, he doesn’t judge you, and he would never hurt you. As we talk, you took in the view of him. You let the world pass you by with no worry of time, food, or any other person besides Sherlock. When you’re with him, you feel you could go on for forever so long as you’re with him. We were two friends on that perfect day.

Then we walked around for a while and we talked about all the things we needed and wanted to do. There is nothing on Earth that you cannot discuss with Sherlock. He mentioned someone who he wishes would notice him, and you think that it’s beyond preposterous that anybody would not notice this man. Sherlock is your light, your sun, the source of your happiness. Upon your silence, Sherlock turns to you and says “John, there is nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here with you.” Smiling at him, you said, “Me too, Sherlock.” Then we sat down and as he got lost in his thoughts, you took in the view of him. You felt you could go on for forever this way; staring at him, sharing space with him. If you could stay for forever with him like that, the sun would shine brightly for forever.

            Suddenly, he breaks his silence and stares at you. Dazzled, you held his eyes. After so many cases, so much time spent together, his eyes still bewitch you. “John,” he says. “I know what happened with your arm.” You stared back at him. Coughing, you told him “Yeah, well, I suppose you do. I don’t keep it a secret.” His eyes were piercing you and you felt increasingly defensive as he said: “No, John.” His voice lowered. “I know what _really_ happened.”

            You stayed silent. Not wanting to give yourself away, reveal what you had done, you look down. Of course he knew. He knew everything. “I… John, I just want you to know… If I had been there... If I had known you…” Sherlock fell silent for some time. Finally, he said “I would have made sure you knew you knew I could hear you. Even if there is nobody else around, I can hear you.”

            Then, your memory played. It plays so often, it was nothing new. You had been walking in the forest when a tree loomed in front of you. It had started with a yearning to know what the world would look like from the top, so high above the ground. You climbed one foot after another, one branch and then to another until the entire world fell away and the sun shone on your face. Then it struck you how meaningless your life was. You jumped. You had intended to die, but instead just injured your arm.

            This time, however, the memory was different. You could imagine, if Sherlock had entered your life sooner, he would run to come get you. You would look over, see him running to come get you and tell you that everything is going to be okay.

            Coming back to reality, you see something in Sherlock’s eyes that crumble your defensive nature and urge to continue denying it. You say to him  “Thank you.”

            “John, it is not easy for me to say this.” You leaned closer. He looked down at his hands, searching for words. “You are the single most important person in my life. Without you, my world would go dark. You have saved me in so many ways and I am infinitely thankful that you found your way into my life.”

            You felt your whole world stop. Sherlock Holmes, the beautiful, brilliant, infuriating, hilarious, perfect man. Sherlock Holmes thought the same things about you that you thought about him. And if that was true, then you could deduce…

            As Sherlock looked away from his hands and linked eye contact with you, his eyes were so vulnerable that you felt compelled to action. Reaching one hand under his chin, you closed the distance between the two of you and shared a beautiful, perfect kiss under the shade of a green tree in a peaceful park.

            Then you came home and wrote this letter. Before you sleep or forget, you wrote this letter. Because, John Watson, today you kissed Sherlock Holmes. You two will be alright for forever. Today you two were friends turned lovers on this perfect day.

Best,  
John Watson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow, I really want to write John's letter from Sherlock's POV. Might do that as a one off or as the next chapter! Either way, there are many details I wanted to put in but felt it wouldn't fit in the letter. Sherlock's POV would be fantastic to write.  
> Thank you for reading! More to come.


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